Anticipating Midsummer

I

            Samwise Gamgee paused on the threshold to the guest house he’d shared with Frodo Baggins for the past several months, here in the gardens north of the hill that held the main city of Tol Eressëa.  The screen that served as a door to the room that held the study was open, and the hinged desktop was dropped to make room for Frodo’s work table that now sat down the center of the narrow chamber.  Frodo was bringing out items he intended to use and setting them carefully on the table—a pot of glue, two rolls of fine, strong string, four sheets of golden paper that he used as endpapers in books he was binding, a long strip of leather such as he used for the spines of books, a pot of black ink….

            Frodo had written, illustrated, and bound a picture book for the daughter of his friend Livwen’s sister Lordeth, but that had been quite some time ago.  He’d not been writing such a thing as a book in the last few weeks.  So, someone else must have wished his services in binding a book—but who?

            Frodo raised his own still bright gaze to meet that of the brother of his heart.  Ah, but good!  Sam, please watch for Mistress Rhysellë and help her as she lets you.  She has finished the tale she promised you.

            Ah, but yes!  Sam had asked her whether she was born on the island or came here later, and she’d promised to present him with a volume depicting how both she and later her husband had come to the Lonely Isle from Endorë many, many yeni past, how they came to love one another and marry, and how they’d had not one but two families in the period of their union.  Two sons they’d had in the first hundred Sunrounds of their marriage, and then two daughters in the last yen.  Their sons had moved to Aman proper long ago.  One lived in Alqualondë amongst the Teleri, and the other farmed land near the eastern shore, not far from Lórien where Lord Irmo had his dwelling.

            Sam set his gardening basket on the bench near the door, and headed west around the north side the hill toward the lands that held Mistress Rhysellë’s orchard and her family’s home. They met not far from the guest house.  She was carrying a wide, woven tray on which lay two bundles wrapped in waterproof cloth, a fold of blue cloth, and a bag of other items.

            “Here, Mistress Rhysellë,” Sam said, taking the tray from her and lifting it to his shoulder.  “”And how is the bairn today?”

            The elleth laughed as she slipped a bag from her shoulder to carry it in her arms.  “My granddaughter is not using her words, but is showing that she will most likely be gifted in osanwë.  For that I will blame your mellon.”

            “Not as it’s his fault,” Sam responded.  “He tells me that it’s difficult to speak aloud now as he’s changed so much.”

            She smiled thoughtfully.  “So it is.  The Becoming changes one so very much.  So Ir Eärendil has told us.  I do not know that he has spoken aloud in two ages of the Sun.  He, too, lost a good portion of his material nature once he arrived here and realized how changed his voyage had made him.  That a mortal could know the same changes is a wonder to him as it is to us.”

            Sam nodded as they approached the guest house.

            Frodo was standing behind the worktable.  Sam brought the tray and held it out to the Ringbearer so that Frodo could remove each item to the table.  He took the fabric first and unfolded it until it was merely doubled, then took up scissors and cut the length in half.  One half he moved to one side and straightened it. The other half he set on the other end of the table where he carefully smoothed its folds, making it even with the first length.

            Satisfied with his first task, Frodo straightened and stretched, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.  At last he reached for a flattened bag from which he extracted four measured rectangles of leather, thick but flexible.  He laid them carefully upon the two lengths of fabric, near where they would become the basis for the covers for the books to be assembled.  From his own stores he pulled finer leather that had been cut into strips, choosing one likely to serve to cover the spines of the books.

            The next step was to open the two bundles, one of which held the manuscript of the book written by Rhysellë, and the other a slightly larger stack of blank pages.  The former was laid upon one of the prepared covers on one side, the blank pages on the other side.  From a folder Frodo removed several sheets of the same paper on which illustrations had been drawn and colored.  The first, a portrait of Rhysellë herself, was laid as a frontispiece facing inward atop the manuscript.  In the middle he placed a portrait of her second daughter, Livwen.  Halfway between the frontispiece and Livwen’s picture he placed a picture of the sons of Rhysellë and her husband Talorë, one wearing a sailor’s cap matching that of his father save for the color, the other clad as one who toiled on the land.  In the center of the second half was placed a picture of Livwen and her older sister Lordeth, Lordeth carrying her daughter Estelieth in her arms, all looking out over the Sea.  On the bottom of the stack he placed a portrait of Talorë.  On top and below he placed blank pages.  He then took the golden endpapers that he folded to slightly more than the width of the blank sheets, cutting off the extra width so that they were mostly even with the blank pages.  Using a metal gauge he straightened the edges of the pages to square them, then drew a line downward a half an inch from the left side. 

            He then did the same with the second stack, using a second gauge to straighten the stacks and square the corners.  He then went quite still, set one hand on the first stack and the other on the second.  Sam had seen Frodo go still in this manner many times while living with him here within the guesthouse, as he focused his will upon the clay he worked into the shapes of birds or other figures.  His face went still, and the Light of his Being shone out from him, eventually focusing on his hands, and from there on the paper, shining up from the top pages and then further and further down until the whole of each stack was illuminated by the silver light.  The gardener noted that not every page in the second stack now shone—several at the bottom of the stack remained with no luminescence, and he wondered at that—briefly.  Then he realized that the second stack had more sheets of paper than the first, so some, at least, would not be needed for copying the text of the first.

            The light dimmed on the two stacks, then shone out again, descending once more from top to bottom, then a third time.  For the third time the light of the pages dimmed, and Frodo’s own light dimmed as well.  He remained still for a time, then reached out to lift the first few pages to show the first blank, then the picture of Rhysellë face down on the second, and the writing on the third and fourth.  The orchardist arose and approached the table, examining the exposed sheets.  In Sindarin she murmured, “But lo!  It is as I wrote it, the picture as you painted it!”

            Frodo smiled a soft smile.  Carefully he lifted the stack and removed the blank sheets from the bottom, leaving but one unmarked sheet below the portrait of Talorë the Sailor.  Again he straightened the stacks, now squaring them on the other side of the pages and laying the stacks slightly overhanging the edges of the intended covers.

            The auger used to pierce the pages was finer than the one used in Bag End, with a smoothly wrought handle at the top.  Here, too, Frodo’s form shone with the Light of his Being as he bored through the stack, far more swiftly and smoothly than he had ever done back in the Shire.  He made a second piercing below the first along the line he’d drawn, then simply drew the auger down the line, and new bore-holes appeared at regular distances along the line.  He did the same with the copy, and again a line of evenly spaced holes appeared down the length of the stacked pages.

            He brought out two spindles and placed the spools of binding twine upon them, each sitting atop a silver bead that would allow the spools to easily turn as needed.  He threaded the string through wide-eyed needles and carefully worked the points into the top holes of the stack.  Sam watched amazed as the needles worked themselves through the bored holes and then up the back of the spine to bind the book securely, following a pattern that would hold the pages together evenly and yet allow them to turn independently.  When they reached the bottom of the pages, they worked back through the holes with a new pattern to reinforce the binding, doubling the strength of the spine.  When they again reached the top of the pages Frodo tied off the ends, and clipped them with fine scissors.

            He brought out a pot of glue and used it to stiffen the strings where they crossed and recrossed at the intended spine, and allowed them to dry.

            Now he brought out the golden endpapers and set one at the bottom of each stack and one at the top.  He used a wide brush to cover the back side of the top one on the original before laying it squarely on the top empty page, pressing it evenly with a second gauge until it was properly adhered.  Automatically the other endpapers were affixed to the blank pages at the front and back of the books.

            So often had Sam watched Bilbo and Frodo Baggins painstakingly do this back when Frodo was yet a tween and later as an adult.  Many times it was needful to remove the blank pages and do it again.  But now all went together as if by magic! 

            Now it was time to prepare the binding.  Frodo set the bound pages atop the first piece of leather intended for the back of the book and placed the front piece atop the stack.  He measured the finer leather for the spine against the gap, marked it to the proper width, and used a fine cutter and a metal gauge to make it fit.  A second piece fell free of the material, the proper size for the copy.  Removing the pages, he set the binding leathers atop the blue fabric, and carefully aligned them so that the left and top sides had the proper overlap.  He used a gauge to make the same overlap at the bottom and finally the right side, and cut the fabric appropriately.  He used a smaller gauge to cut notches at the corners so that the fabric would not be too bulky when folded over, and marked where the covers would lie.

            Again the glue was applied, save where the spine would lie.  He meticulously settled the inner covers on the adhering fabric and used a heavy rod to make certain the covers would be smoothly set.  The edges were brought up to cover the leather on the inside of the book’s cover.  Sam was watching so avidly that only after he saw Frodo finish the covering for the original that he realized that the second cover was also finished, although Frodo had not touched it with his hands.

            Frodo set the pages in place on the back cover, and used the flat brush to cover the back of the front endpaper with glue, and then bringing the front cover over it, again using the rod to make it adhere evenly.  Once the front appeared to be setting up, he did the same with the back endpaper.  Again the copy followed what was happening with the original.

            The leather spine was left to affix, and it was done swiftly over the blue fabric.  The two volumes appeared to be complete—complete and identical.  All that was left to do was for Frodo to bring out the press he used to make his maker’s mark—a flattened form of a dragonfly that was pressed into silver ink and then into the lower right corner of the front cover.  Then he brought out a steel pen and wrote the title in Sindarin on the leather spine—The Tale of Rhysellë and Talorë, by Rhysellë the Orchardist of Tol Eressëa.  Identical writing appeared on the copy.

            It was done!

            “Ea!” whispered Rhysellë.

 *******

            Now that the work was finished Frodo’s Light of Being faded, and he stood pale and shivering behind the work table.  Sam hurried forward to support him and lead him to the chair Frodo usually sat in, wrapping the light blanket that sat upon it about Frodo’s shoulders.  Once Frodo would have been upset for Sam to do this, but he no longer felt the pride that forbade him to appear weak before others.  He accepted the support with a smile of thanks, and indicated he would appreciate a drink.  Rhysellë removed the brushes and scissors, tidying away the leftover lengths of fabric and leather, covering the pots of glue, ink, and the blocks of color, slipping the rolls of string off the spindles and putting them away, replacing the needles in their needle-case, leaving the table mostly cleared and clean.  Only the two volumes sat prominently on its surface.

            Which do you wish to keep for yourself? Frodo asked.

            “The copy,” she answered, and he nodded his head toward it to indicate she should now take it.  She smiled and took it into her hands, carefully opening it to show her own portrait.  In it she carried a woven tray of fruit—peaches, apples, pomegranates, and cherries, displaying the produce of her trees.  She stood in front of her orchard, a dragonfly hovering over a bunch of cherries that overhung the tray.

            The words on the other page were clearly written as if with her own hand, as they described how she had been born in the Mortal Lands to an ellon of the Noldri and an elleth of the Sindar who had chosen to bind herself to him.  They had dwelt under Celebrimbor’s protection until the coming of Annatar, the so-called Lord of Gifts, at which time her mother had become frightened and insisted that their daughter be sent to the protection of Elrond Peredhil.  In the end several children from the city were chosen to go to Elrond, and surrounded by hunters as guards set out for Elrond’s lands.  They were attacked along the way by yrch from the Hithglaer, perhaps set to watch by Annatar himself, and most of their guards and three of the children were slain.  Those who survived were filled with terror, and in time it was decided that they would be sent to Círdan so that they might be forwarded to Tol Eressëa for healing, once it was known that Celebrimbor’s city and inhabitants had been destroyed by Sauron’s forces, Celebrimbor himself in such a cruel, tortuous manner.

            Talorë had been one of those who dwelt in Lothlórien, one of the artisans who helped create pleasure craft for its denizens.  When the call came to march on Mordor for the War of the Last Alliance, he had chosen to follow the army, even though he had never been a warrior at heart.  That he survived the war was a shock to him, and he had chosen to set sail to Elvenhome rather than to return to the Golden Wood.  Among the first to befriend him on his arrival in the Immortal Lands was an elleth whom he thought to be of exceptional beauty, and in time he and Rhysellë were wed and settled in the orchard she had inherited from the one who had preceded her as orchardist when that elleth chose to enter Aman proper.  Both preferred to remain on the Lonely Isle, and had seen their two sons move on, and their late-born daughters remain on the island.

II

            Sam had gone to the kitchen for the guesthouse to fetch refreshments.  The bag Mistress Rhysellë had brought with her had contained fruit from her orchard, as well as strawberries from her garden.  Sam smiled as he washed them and cut them into slices appropriate to be eaten by hand, surrounding them on the serving platter with whole berries.  On a second platter he laid out seedcakes he’s made that morning as well as biscuits he’d learned were favored by the local elves.  He put pomegranate juice and water into two ewers and set them all on a serving tray, along with a number of goblets, and carried it at last into the living room and set it on the table before the seats on which Ir-Iorhael and his guests generally sat.  He poured water and pomegranate juice into some of the goblets, and looked enquiringly at Mistress Rhysellë for her preference.  At her nod, he gave her a goblet of juice and one of water to Frodo.

            “Or would you prefer a cup of your tea?” he asked.  “T’would be but the work of a moment to prepare some for you.”

            Frodo gave his sweet smile.  Oh, but this is enough for now, Sam.  Perhaps a time later.  Thank you.

            After presenting the platter of fruit to Frodo and Rhysellë and taking a seedcake and goblet of the juice for himself, Sam settled himself in his own chair and asked the question that was troubling his mind.  “Tell me, Master—how did you do that?  Make the books make themselves, I mean?”

            Frodo paused with a slice of apple near his mouth.  Master?  How many times must I tell you I am no longer your Master in any way?

            Sam was already shaking his head.  “But in this you are, for there’s no way as I could do any such thing, not less’n you should teach me first and school me hard on it.”

            Both their guest and Frodo laughed at that, Frodo fairly shimmering with amusement.  Ah, but only you could justify that properly, Samwise Gamgee!  He went still for a moment, then gave a smile that appeared sly to his friend.  You may not believe this, but I give Sauron the credit for this ability.

            Sam’s mouth fell open with disbelief.  “Sauron?” he finally managed.  “How in Middle Earth can you say that?  How could he give you the ability to make a book copy itself?”

            Frodo shook his head and went still for some time.  When he continued his face was almost expressionless.  There is a realm of…of spirit, of imagination, of mind.  Most Elves who are creators can enter it at will.  Artists, sculptors, musicians, writers, smiths, others.  Within it they can hear portions of the Song.  If they desire to create a specific thing, they can listen for the portion of the Song that concerns what they would wish to create, and carry it out of the Realm to bring it into being in this world.  The more clearly they can imagine what it is that they would make be, the more meaning they can bring out of the Song and the more easily they can create what they desire.  The more familiar they are with the process by which they would bring what they desire into being, the more swiftly and surely they can bring it to be.

            Again he paused.  He sighed, and his expression became somehow both stern and sorrowful.  Within the Realm of Possibilities is a—a blister, filled with corruption, filled with evil.  It contains the Shadow World in which the Nazgûl dwelt.  From what I have learned it was created by Morgoth himself.  Within it he imprisoned those he stole, at first Elves from about the Waters of Beginning.  There they were tortured both physically and spiritually until in they ended up as orcs, his slaves and servants.

            He taught some of his lieutenants how to enter the Shadow World, including Sauron.  They used it to make more orcs from other races.  You remember, Sam, that many of the orcs we saw in Mordor resembled Men of various sorts, Dwarves, and even a few who may once have been Hobbits.

            Remembering the snuffling tracker who’d complained that Gollum had destroyed the scents of their passage by dragging orc gear around their path as they’d fled the tower of Cirith Ungol, Sam nodded slowly.  It was one time when the miserable creature had saved them from discovery, although it was impossible to decide whether it was wilfully or inadvertently.  Perhaps it had been both?

            You remember that we were told that Sauron himself could not create aught of his own will, but must instead take what others had wrought and twist it to his will?  So it was that he took Morgoth’s blister and created within it the Shadow World.  The Rings of Power he helped to create were tainted by his will to draw those who wore them into the Shadow World as their bodies grew toward their natural end, making of them wraiths serving at his will.  It worked well with those Men to whom he gave them.  Wearing them, they lived longer than was their natural wont, and were convinced they’d been granted life unending—until what remained of their bodies could no longer sustain them and they found themselves now imprisoned.  As wraiths they could enter Middle Earth and work their Master’s will, but they had no true forms in the outer world, only what forms clothing and armour might give them.

            Again Sam nodded.  “I member being told of that.”

            Frodo took a deep breath.  The Rings for Dwarves did not work as intended.  They lived longer than Sauron could imagine, and were too stubborn to be easily overwhelmed by their power, and usually gave them over to their heirs before the Rings could take advantage of their physical deaths.

            Sam smiled.  “Seems as if Sauron outsmarted hisself with that one.”

            Frodo smiled.  Even so.

            “And he never touched the Elves’ Rings, so they didn’t get caught at all.  Was it ’cause of the Elves’ ability to enter this Realm of Possibility that he came to them to create the Rings of Power?”

            I suspect so.  Once he watched them create the Rings for Men and Dwarves, he could create his own Ring—the One Ring.

            They all paused to think on this.

            The Morgul knives worked by the same process as the Rings for Men—drawing their victims further and further into the Shadow World as the shards worked their way to the heart.  Once a shard reached the heart, the victim was finally within the Shadow World, and a wraith like—like them.

            “Only you was too Baggins stubborn to go easily, and it took over two weeks to reach the place where Lord Elrond could get it out.”

            A swift nod.  So it was I was drawn far into the Shadow World before Elrond brought me forth.  He drew me out by entering the Realm of Possibilities to find that blister.  I do not know how he opened it enough to bring me out of it, but it closed and kept its contagion within it.  And, having spent time within it as I did, I can enter the Realm myself and use it.

            I know the process of bookbinding well, as you know.  I could thus do the binding by using the Song, for that portion of it I know well enough.  Copying the text I had to draw from the Realm.

            He looked at Rhysellë.  I fear I did not feel I had the time to copy your story in the proper way, for it would take weeks at the least to do so, and it could take days to bind two volumes.  That is why I chose to copy it in this manner.  I hope you are not disappointed.

            She shook her head.  “And why should I be disappointed?  Both are in my own hand, and my sons and daughters will love them.  As for the illustrations—they are exquisite!  But each shows a dragonfly.  Why?”

            Frodo shook his head.  It is my signature sign.  My cousins made a game of finding the dragonfly in each picture I drew or painted.  My father used a beetle on the furniture he carved, and my mother a butterfly on the things she knit, embroidered, or otherwise wrought.  It became a family tradition.

            “There was a dragonfly on a walking stick the Brandybucks gave to Master Ruvemir’s adopted son Ririon.  They found it in a Mathom room.”

            They kept it?  I found out I did not inherit my father’s gift for carving, trying to make that.  I left it behind in my parent’s quarters after they died.  I was ashamed of it for it did not come out as I’d imagined it should.

            “The lad loved it, and was proud of it from the fact as you carved the worm upon it.”

            He is gone on now?

            “Men don’t tend to live as long as we Hobbits do,” Sam advised him.  “Ririon was a dear lad, and his adopted dad was a fascinating soul.  I think as you’d have liked them both.  His brother Samwise as was named for me kept it in his memory.”

            Frodo shook his head at the thought of that walking stick being prized by Men.

            Rhysellë asked. “But why might you not finish copying and binding the books?”

            Frodo and Sam shared a thoughtful look.  It was Sam who answered, “We’re both old for our kind, Mistress.  Were we back in the Shire it’s likely as neither of us would still be here.  We’d of been beyond the Circles of Arda by this time, as is my beloved Rosie and so many others as we’ve loved.  In fact, Frodo most likely would of died afore he could come here.  He says as he almost give over while he was aboard the ship as carried him here, and the same was true for me.  At least both of us was granted the grace to see this place and know the healing as we needed to appreciate it.  But our time is coming, and we’re gettin’ eager to get on with—with our final journey.”

            It was a long time since Rhysellë had known Men, or had seen them die.  She’d seen such things on her journey from Elrond’s lands to the Havens from which she’d sailed from Middle Earth to here.  Some Men had joined with the Elves who’d accompanied and guarded the children who’d been sent to Círdan’s care, and they’d been attacked several times along that road.  She remembered that most of the Men who’d died had fought their deaths, many afraid of letting go of their lives.

            Neither of these, however, showed any sign of fear, instead displaying—was it eagerness?

My birthday mathom for 2026.

III

            Sam finished the last page of the book he was reading with a feeling of satisfaction, giving a sigh of accomplishment.  It had been written in an ancient version of Sindarin that he had yet managed to read without requiring coaching from either Frodo or the author. 

            How had he managed the whole volume in only two nights?

            He turned it to the frontispiece once more, and smiled to see there a portrait of the one who had written it at his request—Rhysellë the Orchardist, wife of Talorë the Sailor, parents to Livwen, a beauteous elleth who had been friend and companion to Frodo since he’d first arrived on Tol Ressëa, all those years ago.

            He ruffled through the pages until he came to the next illustration Frodo had made for the book—the portrait of the two sons the authoress had borne, both standing on a height overlooking the Sea, one wearing the cap of a sailor and holding a scrolled map in his hand, the other with his hand upon the handle of a hoe, with strands of wheat caught in his hair.  The dragonfly fluttered near the hand of the sailor, its body a shining blue with green shadows lower down on its body.

            The third illustration was in the center of the volume, that of Livwen standing under subdued trees, a bird perched upon her finger and her eyes filled with the delight of it.  Here the dragonfly was upon her left shoulder, as if it were a brooch holding her shawl draped down her side and across to below her right arm.

            My Frodo loves her, loves her true, he thought. 

            He remembered Frodo’s other loves.  First he remembered was Pearl Took, who had thrown Frodo over on the very day he’d thought to give his promise gifts to her of a pair of ear-drops, each with a single pearl, and a strand of silver chain from which hung a great pink pearl, much more delicate than the strand of pearls later given her by Thain Ferumbras after the death of Mistress Lalia,  Pearl had worn the strand but once and never again, returning it to the Tooks’ treasury once her father had followed Ferumbras as the Thain after the older Hobbit’s death.  So much Talk had centered on that strand of pearls, he remembered, focused on the speculation that Lalia had died because of Pearl’s supposed fault in not making certain the old Hobbitess’s wheeled chair was secure as she sat on the great stair at the front entrance to the Great Smial to take the air.  The Thain had indicated that the chair’s brakes had failed due to his mother’s great weight, leading it to slip forward and roll down the steps.  An unfortunate gift that strand of pearls had been, Sam thought.

            Then there was Narcissa Boffin, a cousin of Frodo’s who’d lived in Overhill and had loved him since she was a teen—or was it a young tween?  She’d loved him quite as long as had Pearl—before the latter had thrown him over, at least.  But it wasn’t until the Party that he’d actually looked on her and realized how much she loved him and how he might love her back.  But that was apparently the end of that attraction once the Ring came into Frodo’s keeping.  After they’d returned from Gondor he’d realized she still loved him, but now he believed he was not recovered from what he’d been through and drew away from a relationship that might not be fully consummated.

            Livwen was but a child when Frodo arrived on Tol Eressëa, but had become an adult in the years since.  The two had realized they loved one another as a lad loved a lass, but what could come of it?  Frodo was now elderly while she was yet a young elleth with a long, long life ahead of her.

            It’s just not fair, Sam thought, not fair at all!  He wanted so much to be a Dad hisself, as I was able to be.  And she does love him true!

            But then, he knew too well, that Life was rarely fair, and it seemed so mostly to those who were often denied such great rewards as were due to them.

            He sighed as he closed the book and set it aside.  He knew that the dragonfly hovered over the bairn’s face in the picture of Livwen and her older sister Lordeth holding her infant daughter.  In the last picture, at the back of the volume, a purple and blue-black dragonfly sat on the folds of the sailor’s cap as if it were a jeweled pin. 

            As he sat up, he fingered the crystalline shell that held within it the jewel of light that had allowed him to read the volume, and it was extinguished.  How wonderful it was that here lamps were lit by Noldo-wrought jewels where at home all must have at least a heart of flame to give light.

            He rose, intending to enter the room of refreshment, as the Elves called it.  He walked about the couch on which the brother of his heart lay, actually asleep.  So often Frodo did not sleep, resting briefly before going out into the gardens to watch moon and stars, to sing softly his praise for the beauty he knew here, the thanksgiving for the healing he’d known for his body and his spirit, the joy of friendships he’d known, and his prayers for those he’d loved throughout his life, so many of them back in the Mortal Lands.  Sometimes he’d sit beneath the White Tree, resting near Bilbo’s grave and the love he held for those who might rest below other Elven trees in the remains of Lórien, the Shire, or before the King’s Citadel.  Not, of course, that Lord Strider and his family were in Gondor now, for they’d planned to come to Annúminas for the summer months this year.  Most likely the children were there, too.  They’d be preparing for the festivities of the night to come.  For it would be Midsummer tomorrow—the center of the Lithe-days!  Gandalf had arrived as Mistress Rhysellë had prepared to leave the guesthouse two days earlier, seeing her on her way with a tray of baked goods and her newly-bound book, and quietly advised them as he’d promised that they had two nights before the holiday.  Frodo had shone with pleasure at the news, and Sam had felt a quiet excitement that he’d not completely expected.  But it had not left them much time to see the house cleansed and all readied, much less for him to read Rhysellë’s book!

            He paused as he looked down at Frodo’s sleeping form.  He remembered his friend’s last nights in Bag End when he’d slept with extra pillows to raise his head and torso to help him breathe.  Now he lay as he’d done as a youth in Bag End, on his right side with his arm stretched out, as if ready for young Merry and Pippin to join hlm there as they had as children, feeling welcomed and safe in his embrace.

            How glad he was that Frodo could sleep so once more.

            I thank you all for this blessing for him, he thought as he returned to his own couch, smiling as the light of stars filled the room alongside the beautiful scent of the athelas plant that grew in the pot on the windowsill.

            When he woke up, he found that Frodo was sitting up, the white silken cover pooled in his lap, his attention fixed on Sam’s face.  You are well, my brother?

            “Yes. Why?”

            You were speaking in your sleep—with Rosie.  After a moment, he continued, You were assuring her that the wait was almost over, and that you have missed her ever so much.  She kissed your brow, and then you woke up with—that—in your hand.

            Sam looked down at his hand in surprise—and found that he held one of the coral-colored roses he’d grown in his wife’s honor.

            If there is any sign that you are ready to go on, this was it, my brother. Frodo’s smile was thoughtful, but he shone brightly.

 *******

            Sam was looking over a tray in the kitchen that held a number of wax candles.  He looked to his companion.  “I don’t know as why you have so many candles, here where you don’t especially need such things.”

            Frodo looked up, his face thoughtful.  Do you not think that at times I missed such things as candle flames?  The bee keeper who lives beyond Mistress Rhysellë’s orchard has given me honeycomb from time to time, and so it was easy to make candles at times.  I shall leave these to Livwen.  She was fascinated with the thought that we used them for light in the Mortal Lands.

            After a moment Sam commented, “She will light them when she misses you the most.”

            Frodo’s face was solemn.  I suppose it shall be so.  What do you wish to do once we have the last of what is left settled?

            Sam decided to take this chance to change the subject.  “Well, what about we go see the glass butterflies once more, afore we go to the feast at the Mallon grove?  We are going to that, aren’t we?”  At Frodo’s nod, he continued, “They’re goin’ to want you to dance.  Have you decided what dance you’ll give them?”

            Frodo’s eyes began to sparkle.  What about we give them a dance featuring both of us?

            The two Hobbits looked at one another, and Sam’s mouth curled into a smile.  “The Staves Dance?  Why not?  Have many of the Elves here have seen that one?”

            Some of the young ones who have learned our dances from me.  And Elrond, of course.  He saw it there in Imladris when we danced it for Boromir.  Let us impress them!

 *******

            When they returned to the guesthouse, they found Olórin awaiting them in the guise of Gandalf the Grey.  He looked them over from under his long eyebrows.  “So, you have returned at last.  And were the butterflies fulfilling to watch?”

            Sam shook his head, his heart still thrilled at the memory of the beauty of such creatures.  “Among the most wonderful creatures as I’ve ever seen.  The Creator has given such beautiful things for our delight!”

            “That He has,” the Maia said, his own Light of Being shining forth.  “Does it please you to come to the feast in the Mallon grove?  They await you with patience.”

            Let me put these into water, Frodo suggested, looking down at the handful of flowers he’d bought from the glade where the butterflies danced in the sunlight.  These were not such blooms as were common to the gardens that spread about them, and Frodo had respectfully asked permission to take some.  A female Maia had taken a visible form, and smiled as Frodo accepted this nosegay from her.  Frodo placed them into the same vase in which Sam had placed his rose, and set them on the sill of the front window where they would catch the morning sun on the following day.  

            Gandalf looked at the vase with a curious expression, but said nothing of it.  Instead he turned to Sam, asking quietly, “What of the book given you?  Did you finish it?”

            “Last night.  Didn’t think ahead o’ time I could read it all so swiftly.”

            “How should it be bestowed?”

            Sam looked down at his hands for a moment.  “Don’t quite know.  I wish as it could go to my Elanor….  But how could that be?  It’s here and she’s there, after all.”

            Frodo joined Sam at that point, and the two followed the former Wizard to the grove where so many of those who’d come from Lothlórien in Middle Earth had settled here on the Lonely Isle.

            Sam murmured in Frodo’s ear, “You think as they’ll have such things as staves, there where the feast is?”

            One of the newcomers has plans to raise a flet for himself.  I would think that he will have been gathering poles for it.  He would most likely be willing to allow us to use two of them.  Such poles are often of various lengths, or so I remember from when those who came with the Lady were fashioning their own.

            Sam smiled with satisfaction.

*******

            Livwen and her family were present at the feast, as well as those who’d known the two Hobbits in the Mortal Lands and many the Cormacolindor had come to know in their time on Tol Eressëa.  During the early years of his stay, Frodo had mostly been invited to such feasts high in the city; but as it became obvious that he preferred those presented in the Mallon groves, more of those who’d come to honor him joined him in these more rustic celebrations.

            There was food and drink, music and dancing.  Sam sat and watched as Frodo joined in many dances that were favored by the Elves, Frodo’s small stature somehow adding to the beauty and delight of such activities offered to both participants and those who watched them.  Neither Frodo nor Sam ate much, and both mortals accepted water more than the drinks enjoyed by their hosts.  But they smiled and laughed, joining in the storytelling and the singing, thrilling to the music played by those who were masters of instruments.

            The moment came when Talorë begged Frodo to perform one of the dances of his own people.

            Frodo and Sam smiled at one another as both rose to their feet.  My mellon and I wish to show you one that is seldom seen even within the Shire.  Some of your sons and daughters have been learning the way of it from me, but none have seen the dance done properly by two who have fully mastered the steps.  With your permission?

            Elrond had straightened at this communication, and those who surrounded him responded to his obvious interest.  “This should be enlightening,” murmured Artanis Galadriel, at which pronouncement her daughter straightened where she sat upon the ground, focusing her attention on the two Perianneth as they prepared themselves.

            Frodo approached the one who was preparing to build his flet, who disappeared into the grove and returned with several poles he’d been gathering.  Sam and Frodo tried a few of them and chose ones suitable to their intended use, bringing their choices back to the dancing ground.  Frodo divested himself of his usual silver robes, showing that he wore a dancer’s kilt under them; Sam removed his jacket and waistcoat, surrendering these to Gandalf; and each took up his chosen staff to face one another.  One of the youths who’d studied the dance with Frodo looked a question, and at a nod from the Hobbit he began to sing.  After two repetitions of the chorus, the two Hobbits of the Shire began to move, the staves flashing and clattering, one being aimed at head or shoulder only to be swept away, then the other sweeping under leaping feet that twisted to again bring the two dancers to face one another. 

            The clashes of the two staves indicated that had any single blow hit the body of the other dancer, the recipient of the blow would have been seriously injured.  But such was the skill of the two Hobbits that each strike was properly parried or evaded, often causing the watchers to cry out in surprise that this time once again tragedy had been avoided.

            The song was not one commonly heard within the Immortal Lands; it was definitely at one with mortality, with dangers faced and avoided, and life affirmed.  Those Elves who’d fled Endorë recognized the defiance of the music that accompanied the dance, and shared in the delight of the victory of the dance leaving those who performed it to avoid harm to themselves or one another.  When at last it was finished, those who’d formed the audience rose in their applause as Frodo and Sam now stood, facing one another with pleasure at having amazed so many here.  Sam’s face was shining with sweat and delight, and Frodo’s simply shone with his pride for their shared accomplishment.

            “That was good!”

            All were amazed to hear Frodo Baggins speak those words aloud.

            Soon after the two Hobbits took their leave, explaining they had plans of their own for the coming evening.  Their arms about one another’s shoulders, the two of them left the company, the Lights of their Beings shining out in particular brilliance, gold and mithril-silver blending together in a marvelous display as they returned to the guesthouse where Frodo, the Lord Iorhael, had dwelt for so long, with first Bilbo, then by himself, and now with Samwise Gamgee, the Lord Perhael/Panthael as his companions.

            “Oh, Olórin,” whispered Livwen to the Maia, “how they shine together!  How alive they both are tonight!”

            But the former Wizard, who’d dwelt so long amongst mortals, found himself thinking on the candles Frodo had wrought of beeswax, sitting on a woven tray in the kitchen of the almost empty guesthouse, and how after being lit, tended to flare with their strongest light as they burned down to the last length of wick.